


The dawn of Empires

by isabelarocha



Series: Tales of Gold and Silver and Rust [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Childhood, Conworld, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Friendship, Lesbian Character, Love, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:56:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8268397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabelarocha/pseuds/isabelarocha
Summary: The struggles of two women trying to win a war lead the Silver into the dying lands of the North - a place where all life wanes through the passage of time - to search for a way to win. Lyandra is the protector of the High Priestess of the Silverlands, and a coarse woman who had known no love but that of Diandra, the woman she grew to devote her life to. Further south, the return of Naya to the Walled City of the Goldenlands changes the life of all the lofty inhabitants of her home, and the upcoming trial for the adventurer is known to be the event of the century.
The actions of these women will change the world as they once knew, and cause a major change on the use of the Sacred Arts through the globe. And the consequences will be paid for all those who are  submitted to either gold, silver or rust.





	1. ONE: LYANDRA

She had done all she’d promised her friend, and would do much more. But deep down, Lyandra knew that no matter what she did, important things like the fate of her crew and her people to an extend laid in hands of grander people, of people like Diandra. The white one breathed in and laid her gaze upon the black, staring to her sister in blood for the thousandth time. Her skin was so dark she nearly did not see her shape against the night sky, but she at least had good eyesight. She could see her spine and scapular bones moving, bending her soft skin up and down, and making the white moles seem like stars in a calm galaxy. Back at Fair Gold, everyone either praised her for her skin or attempted to touch it in all the worst ways – ways Lyandra knew all too well –, for it was not coffee brown like the sailors of the isle, but pitch, graphite and sky black, ethereal and mystical, and then exotic in the most despicable way. And when the wind blew, her equally dark hair moved against the air like tresses made of iron, and Lyandra rose with her cloak, as it was likely that she would get a cold if remained uncovered.

“You are not my servant, Lya.” Said she, yet allowing the white one to lay the fur cloak upon her shoulders. She had killed and skinned two panthers to make her that cloak, and it was already dirty and in a worse state than before. She liked to think that when it all got over, she would have that cloak cleaned and sewn properly, and that Diandra would wear it proudly like the Priestess she was. “You don’t have to clean me and dress me. You swore to protect me, nothing more.”

“Swear I did.” The white one smiled, tapping her shoulders firmly as she turned, gaze locked upon the black’s eyes. That, her teeth, and the pale moles were the sole white areas of her body – a body she was proud to know well -, and her hues sparkled like molten silver. “So I keep you clean, so you will never be in distraught, and warm, so you will never be sick.”

Diandra said nothing, and moved towards the fire, rubbing her hands above the crackling flames. It took her some time to breathe in and repeat her worry “Do you think they are following us?” Lyandra knew it that the black one was growing tenser and tenser with time and inaction, but so was she. And so, she sternly replied what she had in the past.

“They are not. And it is not like they’re going anywhere.” She paused for a moment, aware that this was not what she wanted to hear, and did not contemplate the reasons why men would stay in camp. “They are not angry enough to leave camp into the unknown to find you. Neither can or will they build a ship so fast. We have time.” Lyandra blinked, and offered a more hopeful tune – one that she was sure sounded like a plea – then, touching her hand. “They will follow you again once you make a miracle happen.”

She could see then the distress upon Dia’s face, and nearly regretted her request. “I cannot control them.” Lyandra knew that, but also knew that she needed to learn how, otherwise she would be the most useless High Priestess her people had known, no matter how much she loved her.

“Learn how. We have time.” A blunt lie, but she had always been a better liar than Diandra. That was a talent of common people like herself, of defenders and servants – a talent that given who she was and the position she held, Diandra never truly developed.

“I don’t even know where to start.” She had said that, too, before wrapping herself more tightly under the furs. “I make it happen when I’m scared.” Added, and yet, Lyandra knew that much. She inhaled, and, once again, attempted to make peace with the fact that believing in Diandra wasn’t – yet – enough. What she could do was keep her safe, and that she did, offering her hand for the black one to help herself up.

“This cloak is not clean, but is on better state than the clothes you came in with.” Said she, in a rather matter of fact way. Diandra had been wearing crepe and silk, hardly the best choice on wear when it came to surviving in the wild. “The days may be hot, but you should be covered at night. Most people do not survive in the wild because they do not know how to take care of themselves. They die; as they will not shelter from the cold wind, will drink seawater on despair, allow the wind to cool them when they should cover. Many are afraid to be attacked by animals, but the slow kill of nature is more terrible, and more brutal. So cover yourself. There is a cave not far from here…” A cave she found when scouting sooner, one she knew some of Diandra’s crew – and some of _her_ women – knew of. Yet, Lyandra feared more nature than women or men. She had had her share of kills, had seen the flesh and blood of women and men alike. Nature, Lyandra never found how to defeat that one. “We should be safer there.”

The black one rose herself with her aid, and the sound of a crack – a wooden crack – echoed through the silent night. Lyandra instantly grimaced, feeling her muscles tense and harden around her bones and branches. But no pain came, and she smiled a relieved smile “It wasn’t me.” Said she to a distraught Diandra, whose face instantly shifted from a preoccupied guilt to a relief. “You stepped in a branch or something, that’s all.” And yet, she quickly released her hand from Diandra, to run her fingers through her right arm. There was a branch growing inside her skin – she was not entirely sure where it started, but the priests had told her it rooted in her heart – and she felt it bend through her armpit, circling her arm and starting to sprout by her wrist. She could see the pointy twig breaking her skin, and while she did not have the guts to ask Diandra, – she knew the black one would be upset – Lyandra could not help but wonder if the branches would sprout and blossom. She somehow liked the idea of having flowers bloom in her skin, like a gentle adornment that would spare the flowers for her funeral.

Diandra said nothing, and for a moment was glad that her friend liked to avoid problems – or ignore them until they were impossible to. And while she absentmindedly guided her through the wilderness, her mind roamed through the memories she wished lost; the rough childhood she endured with the black one and how, even then, when she was young, she was somehow aware that her friend was special and needed to be protected. She had once wished to be special too, but as soon as that thought returned to her mind, the white one shook her head firmly away. She was sure this was the sort of thought that caused the branches to root in her heart: Painful thoughts, hurt, longing. And just like Diandra did, she would avoid the problem and pretend that those were not the main reason why she had something so much like a sorrowful tree growing inside.

“You never told me if they hurt.” Diandra was timid when she asked, to which Lyandra shrugged.

“Does it matter?” Replied, in a rather matter-of-fact way.

Diandra fell silent for a long moment, thoughtful. She could hear her clumsy steps – a coarse childhood and Dia still managed to walk through like a princess – hardly how she –should- be walking at that moment. That thought made her smile, and when she turned her head to look at her, she had her face down. “It doesn’t.” Said she, to which Lya nodded. “Still. Maybe I could do something about it. If it hurts.”

The white one pondered for long, before replying. “Well, of course it hurts when I break a branch. Less than breaking a bone, a lot more than breaking your nail.” A Pause. “When it started growing, it hurt a lot more. Now… It’s a different sort of pain.”

“I’m the High Priestess…” Said she, and she suddenly sounded so sure the white one had to stop to look at her. “So I can make the pain go away.”

Lyandra had to laugh. There was only so much the sacred ways could do, and her pain now, spreading from her heart and into her limbs was a physical manifestation of sorrow – or that was what the priests of the Silverlands told her. “Sorrow is something too immaterial for your gift to reach it,” said she, smiling however. “It would take more than a miracle to make the pain go.” Lyandra shook her head. “I’m glad you care.”

“Of course.” Dia nodded, tightening her black hand around her wrist and caressing the pointy twig, causing the white one to shiver and pull her hand away. She shook her head, and Diandra was all apologetic again. “I could make you happy. Happiness kills sorrow.” And there was hope in her eyes, so suddenly. Lyandra shrugged, but didn’t find it in her to tell her it wouldn’t work, and so, she just nodded.

“There.” Said Lyandra, as the cave could already be seen, close to the shore. She left the line of the trees, feeling the sand under her bare feet – she had given her boots to Diandra. The sea breeze was oddly warm, but the sands already felt cold to her touch.

But while Lyandra feared more nature than men, she was not expecting to see one so soon. She had known better, she knew that if they had men from the Ruby Islands join their crew; a mutiny was more than likely. The white one pushed Diandra backwards, but it was late as they both had already been seen.

The man screamed and opened a cocky smile as he walked towards the white and the black, and Lyandra cattishly walked towards him whist keeping the black one just behind her.

“We’ve been looking for you. –Your- women, as you’d call’em want back.” Said the man, tanned and touched by the sun, a golden tooth on the first row of his mouth. He had a bright red hair, freckled skin and was muscular, more than Lyandra herself – she had lost much of her strength since the branches started growing. “And we want back. Your friend could do a miracle, aye? Make the boat float again.”

“The High Priestess is tired.” Said Lyandra, defensively, realizing that Diandra was likely scared – and that her fear looked bad. “The crew of men assembled from the people of the Ruby Islands is undisciplined. Had them known how not to rebel, we would’ve stayed, and Diandra would’ve made a miracle already. She wouldn’t be so tired.”

The man laughed. “Did you always speak for her, eh? I have never seen such thing, a High Priestess or so called afraid of a man, of all things.”

But Diandra had reason to. He was armed, having a curved sword on his waist, and a golden dagger on his belt. Lyandra herself only had the silver spear she brought from home, but no shield – that was left on the boat. Neither was she in her best state. Barefoot and wearing just leather pants and a woolen vest, she was hardly dressed for combat, and knew that any strike would be fatal.

“You two just come back to camp.” Lyandra should’ve known his name, but she could not remember. Men tended to be so much alike… “I’m sure we can find some use to the High Priestess.” He smiled, a disgusting smile as he said her title so mockingly. “To the both of you. You always wore so much silver around you I never realized there was a beautiful woman under your armor. I just can’t control myself, I just want to kiss you. That’s what how I react to beautiful. Just kiss.” And continued to smile, a smile Lyandra learned all too well through the Gem Islands. He stepped forward towards them, and Lyandra remembered. And Lyandra couldn’t avoid the urge to defend herself from men like him – now she knew how to.

The Silver woman pointed her spear forward, and the man laughed as he unsheathed his jeweled sword from his belt. Lyandra realized that he was likely fast as he had the curved sword as weapon of choice; and that she was unlikely as strong as him – not with the branches slowing her muscles down.

And so, she charged first, aiming for his intestines. The man stepped aside, missing her strike for just a few inches, and motioning to hold the spear with his bare hands. Lyandra smiled as he did, and pulled the spear down in an attempt to bring him to the ground. But the man was strong and she, too, was pulled down as both he and she did not let go of the silver peace.

Lyandra was on her fours, then and knew that in order to keep Diandra safe, the man would have to die. Otherwise he would do her what once was done to herself by men like him – and that she could not abide. Letting go of the spear for a moment, the woman was capable of rising herself with her hands, aiming a very powerful kick on his head – one that would be more effective had she been wearing boots –, bringing the man to the ground on his behind. She took the spear again, rising once more and feeling the sand on her feet, finding her balance.

Alas, the man was fast, and he threw the golden dagger, and Lyandra instinctively defended herself with her shield hand – not realizing she was without a shield. It was habit, and it was her technique to make her weapons an extension of herself, but without her shield she was just mutilated.

The dagger hit her hard, entering under her collarbone and dangerously close to her rooting heart. The woman breathed in, attempting to let go of the pain and keeping the dagger where it were – if she removed it, she would start to bleed too much. Letting out a gnarl, she rose up her spear and aimed for his neck.

But just as she was about to hit him, she heard a crack; and screamed.

She had lied to Diandra. Breaking a branch hurt just as much as breaking a bone, and she had just, thanks to the fast and round movements, broken the one of her right arm. Her mind spiraled, and as the sap started to flow through her arm, dripping at the twig in her wrist and infecting her blood with sorrow, memories she longed to forgot returned. She nearly did not feel the pain as the man cut her belly just at the right place and her left arm held her intestines in place, for her memories were much, much more painful.

She fell on her back and writhed in pain, screaming now. She nearly did not feel the rain. She nearly did not feel the cold coming upon, only the sound of thunders made her all too aware; and as she fought the effects of the sap; she looked at the man, and she looked at the black one.

The man’s eyes widened, and he had fallen to his knees.

“I pledge myself to thee.” Said he, and Lyandra turned her neck.

She could see Diandra, and she had never looked so beautiful, and so terrifying.

There wind blew around her, so strong it lifted her a few feet from the ground; her hairs storming through just like the storm that suddenly came. The sea grew suddenly so restless that giant waves came toward the three of them, one so strong that lifted the white one many meters from the ground; and just like that, froze. She was held safe by ice, that embraced her wounds and kept her intestines in place. Storming water was down, and the man too was frozen, just his head outside the glacier that held him still.

And then Diandra danced. And when she danced, the water, and the wind bent to her will; and water itself formed a frozen boat where Lyandra herself was the highest pole. And then it moved, destroying the trees, killing the animals and even any nature that dared stand in her way.

Diandra never had a reason to be afraid of nature.

She was the one to control nature and bent it to her will.

Lyandra barely felt cold, and laughed as she realized Diandra was making a miracle.

“I can bend the storms, and the time to my will!” The black one’s voice echoed not only from her throat, but the thunders too spoke as she did, making all in the island hear her as well. And as the ice ship reached for the camp that had dared rebel her all men, and the Silver women, too, knelt in awe and horror. “You wished for a miracle and I brought you one!”

She didn’t even had to ask for loyalty, or for obedience. From up there, Lyandra could see believers eyes, and one by one the former crew desperately climbed into the ship, pledging words of love and devotion towards the black one. Diandra danced, and the ship returned to the course that had been planned ahead. She suddenly knew she would survive, and suddenly knew that Diandra would prove all she was the one.

By the time the sun rose, she saw the city of Golden Landing. Diandra’s wrath made the travel that’d take days happen in hours. And when the frozen ship touched the port, awing bystanders on their daily chores, she knew it too, that the mortals of the North would join their cause.

After all, Diandra was more than an emissary of the Goddess.

She truly believed now that she was the incarnation of the Goddess herself.


	2. PROLOGUE: LYANNA

She was up there, on the hill she used to go when she wanted to see the sun rising, and she had never seen so many colors. Horrifying colors. Red and yellow. Bright blues and greens. And purple, the dreaded purple she know would be her undoing. In another day – in another life – Lyanna would’ve been amazed by all those shades as she had grown seeing only the brown, the washed out shades and dirty whites; colors of a girl known to poverty; but now she could only let her mouth open, the screams of horror muffled by nothing but horror itself. Her voice had died, and she held Leticia`s hand tightly, knowing that she may hurt the girls hand and not caring at all.

Leticia too tightened her hand, and she saw tears streaming through the milky skin of her face. She had once been jealous by the beautiful texture of her skin, when she could afford being jealous; but now she could do nothing but wonder if she, too, wept. She felt no wetness in her face thou, and she wondered if her shell remained as hard as it seemed. Lyanna inhaled then, eyes locked upon the wondrous, monstrous animals made of red fire.

It was ironical how one of them was a fish, swimming through the air and destroying the crops of the rice fields. She could remember all the time spent working on those fields, knee deep in water side by side with her father under the merciless sun. Now the fire animals rose, steaming the water and raising enormous hot clouds. There was one in there, a monster made of yellow fire with a long snout stomping the – she had never seen an animal like that.

The purple men laughed as they waved their gloved hands and created a giant three-headed wolf made of fire – she gasped as the fire appeared out of thin air as they danced, forming that dreaded menagerie. The dog stormed forward and howled a horrific howl as he joined his fiery friends, burning all on his way. And she knew that this was the doing of the purple men.

“Your brothers!” said Leticia, all of the sudden. “They’re still home-- the clouds!”

Lyanna watched with horror as the wind blew the clouds – no doubt steaming – towards the village. And it was only realizing that her brothers would be submitted to that hot water that made the scream escape her throat. Terror, seemed, couldn’t be refrained for long.

She grabbed Leticia as she ran towards the village, rolling and stumbling through the grassed hills. She fell on her fours as she reached the bottom, and looked up at the small houses, and all the people gathered to see the purple men do their dances, garbed on their purple clothes like kings.

Or worse. Garbed like gods.

“Allain!” she screamed, but not gathering the attention of the people. She hushed forward, realizing that both her hands and knees were scratched from her fall. Leticia hadn’t fallen, and she suddenly felt guilty for pulling her like that. It would be bad for the baby. The girl rose and gathered her worn skirts, blending with Leticia – who never let go of her hand – into the commotion of people, who dared not say a word in front of these purple gods. And silently, she pulled the youngest of her brothers by his shoulders, who drafted not a single reaction – unlike he would. “Where is your brother? We have to leave, now!”

Allain blinked once or twice, his jaw trembling. “He was going to see dad.”

She looked at Leticia. “Take our cart, and the mule. We’re leaving now. Meet me at the stony road.”

Lyanna stormed through the houses, not hearing whatever Leticia had to say. She saw it from up there, the steaming clouds would arrive at any moment, and she would not commit the same mistake as her father. She would not try and warn the villagers that they would all burn if they stayed there. If they didn’t know, the purple men knew not either. And to have them die was a fair price for the life of the purple men. At least she repeated that to herself while she searched for the Claus, the youngest.

He was only six, and already smarter than Allain. He stood where her father was buried, and Lyanna paused for a moment just to gather her breath, hands on her knee.

“Claus.” Said she, breathlessly, as he, just as the villagers and herself a few moments a go, watched the fiery menagerie destroyed the fields they’d all worked so hard on. “We have to go.”

He looked back, and she could tell he had been crying.

“We can’t leave father.”

“Father is dead Claus. Come, there’s no such time for this.”

“You’re not mother!” said he, stubbornly, and no matter how bright she thought him to be, the way he pouted now made her doubt his smarts for once.

She saw the steam arriving, and for that; simply rose and grabbed him by the waist, putting him on her shoulder as he screamed and writhed. Lyanna had no time to argue, but things would be easier if he just –obeyed-. She walked fast, no matter she was carrying her brother – she, after all, used to carry rice sacks back then, heavier than her brother was -, but the fact that he kept thrashing himself made it all more difficult. And he screamed, and screamed and screamed, until she finally put him down in front of her.

She gasped again, but refrained a scream as it was _her brother_. His face was all red and burned, forming bubbles already – he was screaming because his face was –burning- from the heat. Lyanna felt the skin behind her neck sting and moaned in pain. He had been facing the direction of the steam while she carried him, and had been screaming of pain.

“Go, go, go, towards the stony road. RUN!”

He was faster than she was, and she hushed behind him, as, no matter if he obeyed her now, he continued to scream and cry – likely of pain. Leticia did the right thing and hushed for the mule who, knowing the threat of the steam behind them, trotted faster than it ever had.

“Run Lyanna!” screamed Leticia, and the girl used the last of her energies to toss herself at the cart, being pulled in by Allain and the blonde one. She gasped and inhaled hot air and closed her eyes, embracing both her brothers and knowing that Claus would have his face marked for like because of her; just like she had freckles because of her father. And then, suddenly, she cried; out of guilt for what she did, for judging her father, for the people she did not warn of the steam. They would all die – she was so sure of it.

“It’ll be fine.” She said among sobs and hiccups. “We’re going to Watercity. We’ll be fine.”

Only she was not so sure. Not now.

Maybe, not ever again.


	3. TWO: CLARKE

She was by far the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was tall – taller than himself – lean and lithe, graceful no matter her thinness. She wore a golden gown that revealed her sun kissed thighs, and her equally golden hair was pulled back, revealing her angular face, strong jawline and golden eyes. Had she not moved, Clarke would be completely sure that she was a statue made of gold. And when she smiled, her lips were of brassy gold, her tongue like golden copper and her teeth as pearly white as her alabaster skin. She was like those of the Silverlands, he thought. Only they were the lonely moon, and she was the beaming sun.

“Who are you?” he asked, feeling nervous and embarrassed for no reason at all. Maybe because, no matter how handsome he was called, she was still much more stunning than himself. “You are of gold. I’ve never seen your kind.”

Her smile widened, and the golden girl close the distance between them. When she extended her hand to touch his face, Clarke somehow knew that her skin could be hot to the touch, and he, too, smiled.

“I’m from across the spine.” Said she, and the furrowed his red brows. He thought of the high peaks that cut the continent right in the middle, north and south, and how it widened by the East until it grew in size and supposedly ended the continent by the Far East. No one ever crossed those mountains, and he had assumed there was sea in there, just like there was north. “We are not social beings.” She added, and he could hear the hint of mischief upon her velvety voice.

He had seen her emerge from the rocks, jumping from a stone to another with an ease she had never seen. His cabin was right at the edge of the village, and he had been charged with protecting his kin from mountain lions and providing them pelt and meat. By the way she spoke, he could nearly assume that she had crossed those mountains just like she descended from gods knows where right that moment, but that would be impossible.

“You said you’ve never seen my kind. Are there other kinds? Different than yours?” Asked, and he instantly nodded, knowing that he would answer whatever she asked. He was still mesmerized.

“The Silver ones. Bloody killers. They landed many years ago in the far south and claimed the entire land as theirs. Not all, but some of them can conjure magic just like that. They kill us with the elements, nature seem to bend to their will.” He paused, and realized that she was as golden as they were silver. She could be just like them, and for that he stepped back, reluctantly.

“Well.” Said she frowning and deep in thought. “We can do… Well, things some can’t.” The woman leaned down, and took three peddles from the ground, extending her hand again towards the man, no matter that he decided to step away from her. “Look.”

Suspiciously, he did. He had always been the curious sort, and his mouth fell agape as she started. The peddles started to float just above her hand, dancing in circles and slowly becoming… Red. She giggled, and made the pebbles dance around her as she too spun, her hair spinning through just like her flowing golden gown; and when she stopped, allowing the pebbles to rest again upon her pale hands, they were rubies. She handled the man those, and his eyes widened as he realized they were indeed precious stones.

“The Silvers can’t do that! I mean, they have truly incredible outfits made of silver, but I’ve never seen them making something so pretty.”

She nodded, slowly. “Well, these silver don’t seem like a nice lot. Why know the sacred ways to kill? To make things that aren’t beautiful? That’s what we do. We do beautiful.”

He nodded, wondering for a moment if he had drank too much, or if the mushrooms he had on lunch were the poisonous sort. But deep down he knew he was conscious, and for that, he did the unlikely – what was known as forbidden when dealing with those who could do magic –, he invited the golden girl into his cot.

She somehow made the place look like a palace. He thought it that her presence in there would make it seem all the more humble, but it did the opposite. She was quick to lift the lion’s skin that hang from the wall and let it rest upon her shoulders and he fell silent, admiring her as she looked just like a goddess. No one looked that good on Lion’s skin. She comfortably sat down on his small table, looking around his small home with genuine curiosity, and he stood, staring back at her, maybe just as curiously. Eventually, however Clarke sat down after rediscovering his throat and the ability to speak, furrowing his brows and waking from his trance.

“How did you get here? And why did you come here? Are others coming?”

The woman seemed suddenly very surprised by his bombarding questions, and furrowed her brows.

“There are many caves through the mountains. I had to carve some, too; but eventually I came here.” She started, chewing on her lower golden lip, but the man tried his best not to distract himself. She continued, “I wanted to know the world, so I figured I would start by the West, as I don’t know how to cross the ocean – yet.” And then, she looked sad, and he instantly regretted asking her questions. “No one else is coming. My people don’t want to leave the walled city. Truthfully, I am surprised to meet other people. Not people like me, there are not many like me, but people who can speak and have the cognition to know language. I mean, your language is very rudimentary, but is a language still. I’m happy that I found someone to talk to. I want to do it more often.”

He didn’t entirely understand what she meant, mostly the language part, but nodded still. “So your people live near the mountains?”

“Oh, no, not at all. We live hidden, miles further the Western mountains. I had to walk for days until I found the mountains, and decided to cross them.”

His eyes widened, and though she –could- be lying, he believed her, just because he wanted real bad that her words were true. “So there are lands across the mountains?!”

She nodded “Yes. Many lands. Well, North of my city there are some lands, and then the sea, same for south, but there are many lands both west and east. I came east because I wanted to see the mountains, and found you lot here. But I think there are swamps west of home. I don’t know. I will when I get there.”

The woman looked around, once more, and smiled right at him. “I like your red hair, and your red beard.” She extended her hand and poked his nose, smiling an empathetic smile. “And I like your home too. Can I sleep here? I am tired, and I don’t want to have to build something outside.”

And of course, Clarke nodded, swallowing dry. He somehow felt something was about to begin, and that the woman maybe didn’t want to rest upon his home out of nothing.

But he was a man. And to her, he wouldn’t ever be able to say no.

“May I know your name?” He asked then, rising and preparing her bed; softening it with all the furs he had home, taking them from his own bed and walls.

“You may not. You were so eager to call me golden. So call me that much.”

He smiled again, for no reason at all.

“Very well, golden.”


End file.
